


The Art of Treachery

by pheonixgate1



Series: Tales of Eorzea [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't Judge Me, F/M, It's not what you think, Other, really it's not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pheonixgate1/pseuds/pheonixgate1
Summary: Aymeric experiences first hand what Heretics once called 'The Dragon's Boon'. It's no boon at all.





	The Art of Treachery

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I thought this was going to happen at the 'Dinner' he invites you to. #SuspiciousStewards

It had been only four short years since the end of what scholars were calling the ‘Dragonsong War’ but what Ishgardians had, up until that time simply called living. Four years of tentative peace, where concerns gradually shifted back to the ever encroaching Garleans and faltering-child’s steps were made toward a badly-needed restructuring. Aymeric de Borel had not been so naïve to think everything would be put to rights in such a short amount of time, but at its current pace, he would consider himself lucky to see a fully unified Ishgard during his lifetime.

 

It didn’t help that the people still couldn’t decide if Aymeric was a murdering dragon-lover or an upstart mongrel bent on tearing down the Aristocracy. Instead of just the poor fool charged with keeping it all together.

 

Four years and he was loathe to remove his armor, even at home while finishing his daily drudgery. After so many attempts on his life it seemed prudent to be ready at all times for as long as possible. And it was here, in his private office he toiled, shoulders heavy with the weight of not his vestments, but the seeming futility of it all.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

He glanced up from his missive. The windows had long grown dark and he’d missed the clock’s last toll, but he knew it was far into the night—certainly no hour for casual visitors. While it was unlikely an attacker would be so polite as to announce their entry, his detractors were nothing if not creative. With hand hovering on the hilt of his sword, he bade entry.

 

 

“Come.”

 

 

His Steward entered, flanked by two attendants, arms laden with trays and other accoutrements. The older man’s face was grim, as if he expected a battle. He sighed, arms falling to their previous state. An intervention then. One long overdue by the look of it.

 

He stood, legs creaking with disuse as he moved to make a place on paper-strewn desk for the trays. No use in fighting the inevitable. And besides, the smell of food had piqued his fickle stomach. As did the sight of the carafe which held within a measure of good, strong tea.

 

 

A spell came from behind. Where the attendant with the clothing had stepped, as if to begin removing his armor.

 

 

The feel of it blossoming within his body followed by no immediate effect caused him to pause before drawing. That proved to be a mistake as his arm was forcibly braced behind his back and a hand wound itself close to his scalp. The other ‘attendant’ made sure his other arm was similarly incapacitated. When he opened his mouth to call out to the guards stationed just outside the manor, the effect of the spell became clear.

 

As did the fact that his Steward’s leisurely pace had nothing at all to do with ignorance.

 

“Is he secure?”

 

 

The grip in his hair tightened cruelly and one of his captors answered, “Aye. We’ve got him.”

 

Able to do little else, he watched as the man whom he’d known since boyhood pulled a vial from the depths of his coat and set it in one of the teacups. The liquid in the carafe proved to be only scalding water and he poured a generous draught into the cup, allowing the small tube to soak its heat.

 

 

He then turned to where his cohorts held Aymeric fast. There was no trace of the man he knew in that gaze.

 

“You ungrateful wretch. He gave you _everything_. Everything but a title yet no one questioned your birthright. You were his hope. His future. And still you struck him _down_?”

 

 _For peace!_ He wanted to yell. His father, who had believed in the cause to his very _marrow_ had wanted nothing less than total annihilation. Had consorted with the Ascians for power, not to protect the people but to protect _the lie_.

 

 

“Bind him.”

 

For a moment he didn’t understand, was he not bound _enough-_ when suddenly he was free. He immediately drew his sword only for a second spell to rip through him like lightning, freezing him in place. He’d never been on the receiving end of anything but healing magic and should he survive he’d be very glad never to feel this particular ache behind his teeth again.

 

 

The unpleasantness of it caused him to lose track of time for a moment. Until hands were on his face and jaw.

 

 

“I thought long and hard on what I should do. I tried in vain to remember the boy you were. Tried to remember that I had once been given the most precious of burdens by the mightiest and yet gentlest of men. I beat my breast in prayer The Fury. To take my rage. To give me peace. But the fire in my belly would not be quenched. Because it is _righteous._ Just. Pure as Halone Herself.”

 

He pulls the vial from the cup and holds it up. The liquid inside is dark, viscous. His first thought is _poison_ but then, why not just put it in his food? Vengeance would have been easily met and none would have been the wiser until it was too late.

 

He uncorks the vial and comes forward. The hands on his face tighten but do nothing else. Waiting for their signal.

 

“Many sleepless nights I had until Nidhogg came. Every able-bodied man was ordered to the Steps that day, no matter their station. When I saw the Demon Wyrm’s white brother laid out across the stones, I knew it was a gift.”

 

He studies the vial thoughtfully and a lick of fear flickers inside Aymeric. Oh Gods. He can’t mean to-

 

“It was an easy thing to put myself in place to attend him. Even easier to steal away a bit of his blood. _Finally_. Finally I had the means to give you exactly what you deserve. I simply lacked the opportunity. Until now.”

 

 

He nodded to his conspirators, and they forced painful fingers into his jaw until it opened enough that they could perpetuate their foul deed. Panic thrummed beneath his skin, and yet he could do nothing. Say nothing.

 

 

“Your Lieutenant is a sharp one. It was by her grace that you’ve escaped your medicine for this long. We’ll see just how sharp she is once we raise the alarm and she finds a dragon where her Commander ought to be.”

 

 

He was right in front of him now, so close he could feel the man’s warmth. A warmth he had remembered as kindness when he had been a small, friendless child. His heart ached with a sorrow so deep it consumed everything—fear and hope alike.

 

 

“I find it ironic that it was by your bleating of the _truth_ that I learned that such retribution was even possible. For, even as my body burned with wrath I could not bring myself to end your miserable life. I can only hope others will see to it now. _May they hack you to pieces._ ”

 

 

The last was but a whisper as his head is forced back and the vial put to his lips. He was able to close his throat to the ice-cold ichor but this proved fruitless as a punch landed hard in his stomach. Released from the spell, he rocked back and the blood was already on its way down, a cold knot in his core that was quickly spreading.

 

 

The room swam before him. He can barely make out the blurry shape of his attackers as they make fast their escape but it is a fleeting observation that is quickly lost in the cacophony of his body.

 

 

The cold is a terrible thing as it slices through him. As he swells into a shape his body has never known and yet slides into with a certain, painful ease. He wants to scream. Not just from the pain but a great wail of grief for his breaking heart. For the evil that good, pious men can do. For the suffering that drives them to it.

 

As his office becomes smaller and smaller, he wonders in a place where he remains unchanged, if his father and his cadre of peerless, faithful knights are somewhere laughing.

 

 

*

 

 

“Well, this one’s alive at least.”

 

Lucia glared at the man, the _healer_ , who had just kicked the guard he’d be asked to attend. Both were slumped outside in the street, insensate after someone had raised a cry of ‘dragon’. Once upon a time such a cry would have been cause to panic, but no one was moved by these antics now. Since Hraesvelgr and his brood had laid down their lives in defense of the Steps, the attitude towards dragons was much improved. At most, such a cry now would only draw the curious.

 

Still, the time of day and the fact the Lord Commander’s home but was steps away bade them to investigate. She sent a knight to check on Aymeric straight away, but as the guards were felled by a simple sleep spell it was unlikely that this was anything more than a prank. Her Commander had probably worked right though the commotion, and was likely even working still. The prat.

 

Jephiat, a student of the Astrologicum and the only healer she could find that could bully the Lord Commander into doing as he was bade, looked unrepentant.

 

“What? –Oh yes, let’s use magic to wake them up. Surely that’s more efficient.”

 

He promptly kicked the other guard who came-to with a groan of pain. At her continued glare he gave a put-upon sigh and cast a healing spell over the both of them. He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘knights _indeed_ ’ before giving the rousing men some space.

 

Before she could question the unfortunate men, the knight she had sent after Aymeric came out of the manor at a dead run.

 

“- _Lieutenant Commander!_ Lieutenant Commander come quick! The door to the Lord Commander’s office is barred and strange sounds come from within. With more hands we might be able to force it. We must hurry!”

 

She and Jephiat share a look. It’s fairly obvious the guards will live, however…

 

“Make sure these men can return to their duties. We may have need of them—and you. All of you wait for my word, then make haste inside.”

 

To his credit, the man merely nodded and turned to his charges.

 

With the situation outside well in hand, she moved swiftly to ascertain the situation within. Thankfully, Aymeric lived modestly for someone of his station. His home was well-appointed but small; having only a handful of servants who did not reside there, and his Steward who did. Lucia was familiar with the man. To Aymeric, he was as family and he would hear no ill word spoken of him. Not that anyone dared.

 

He was conspicuous in his absence. That did not bode well _at all_.

 

A deep crack sounded from behind the office door. She turned to her knight who was already wedging a thick iron fireplace poker between the hinges so they could lift it free. The problem was obvious in that he wasn’t quite tall enough to get proper leverage. She looked around the room and found a sturdy reading chair. He paused from his task as she dragged it over.

 

“Aye, that might do it.”

 

As they got the chair in place and he balanced himself on the thick, padded arms with her as the brace, she spoke loudly so that she could be heard through the door.

 

“Lord Commander! Aymeric! Can you hear me? We are about to remove the door. If you’re able, please stand clear.”

 

 

There was a vague sound of movement but nothing more.

 

 

The knight, grunting as he bent to his task, bit out: “Tried that already. Either he’s gagged or be-spelled or…- _Nngh!_ There we go!”

 

They both clambered down and carefully moved the heavy door out of the way. The sight that met them once the portal was finally cleared caused them both to stare agog.

 

The reason the door had been impassable was not because it had been locked but because Aymeric’s ancient wooden desk had been wedged up against it. It had been rent nearly in twain. Beyond the wreckage was a shifting white mass. It took her a minute to recognize what she was seeing. Her mind added the narrow opening, the unscathed house and the absolute wreck of the office and came to a cold realization. Beside her, she heard the knight draw steel.

 

“-No. Stand down. Fetch me Jephiat. Now.”

 

 

The knight frowned at her.

 

“Ser, I can’t leave you alone with—”

 

 

“ _Now_.”

 

 

As the knight left, she worked on clearing the desk out of the way, which turned out to be a bit more difficult than she anticipated. Lucia had just about decided to start using her sword to hack at the thing before the knight returned with said healer in tow.

 

“By the Fury, what is _that_?!”

 

 

The healer’s shock would be gratifying, if it weren’t so warranted.

 

“That is a dragon. I need to know if it is be-spelled. Can you tell from here?”

 

 

Jephiat crept close to the opening and drew his orrery. He concentrated for a minute before he cast three spells in quick succession. He drew back almost immediately.

 

“Aymeric. Can you answer me now?”

 

 

Both knight and healer’s eyes went round as they began to protest, voices high with shock.

 

“-You can’t think… _Lord Aymeric_?!”

 

“-That’s the _Lord Commander_?!”

 

 

She held up her hand for silence and thankfully the sputtering tapered off into nothing. They all listened for a few beats, and she realized the rhythmic bellows sound they were hearing was Aymeric breathing.

 

“Lord Commander, can you-“

 

_Yes. I can hear you. I can… answer you._

 

 

As one, they stiffened at the familiar voice, which now rang with the strange resonance of dragonspeak. Beside her, the knight cursed quietly as Jephiat warded himself with a shaking hand. Having made the realization earlier, Lucia merely sighed as she sized up the opening that her newly-sizeable Commander would have to fit though.

 

“Jephiat, fetch me those watchmen. Byron, gather up what tools you can find in the scullery. -We’re clearing out this mess.” She turned to Aymeric, his great bulk balanced on the detritus of his own office. “Just bear with us for a little while, Ser.”

 

While his voice was both similar and dissimilar to what it was, the sigh was evident.

 

_I have all the time in the world, Lieutenant._


End file.
